


A New Home

by violasarecool



Series: What Can 8 Grey Wardens Do? [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violasarecool/pseuds/violasarecool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a bit of backstory for how my warden, Quentin, ended up in the Circle tower. featuring Irving and Greagoir arguing as usual, and smol child warden meeting a fellow apprentice</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Home

**Author's Note:**

> warning for brief mention of misogynistic templar and violence against elves

"Greagoir, a word please."

Greagoir looked away from the templar he was talking to, noted Irving standing a few feet away. "Can it wait?" he snapped, "I'm in the middle of something.

Irving pursed his lips. "No, I'm afraid it can't."

Greagoir sighed. "I'll find you later," he told the templar, waving him away. "This had better be important, Irving."

"Oh, I think you'll find it is." He gestured ahead, and they began walking down the hall.

Only when they reached Irving's office and the door was securely closed behind them did Irving break the silence. "Were you informed about what happened in the alienage earlier today?"

Greagoir shook his head. "No, I was occupied with other matters. Did they find the apostate?"

"Ah, no," Irving said.

"Then why all the secrecy?" Greagoir demanded.

"There was... a complication." Irving walked over to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Greagoir. "Read this later. For now, suffice it to say that there was somewhat of an _incident_ caused by one of your templars."

Greagoir frowned. "Drop the flowery words and tell me what happened, Irving."

"Barrett Roscoe killed two elves," Irving said, crossing his arms.

Greagoir snorted. "In self defence, I assume."

"Their _child_ seemed to think otherwise," Irving said tautly. "He said the man grabbed his mother, and when she was less than complacent, kicked her to the ground, then stabbed the father for coming to her defence."

"The child said all that?" Greagoir sneered.

"Not in so many words."

"And you trust the word of a child over that of my men?" Greagoir spat. "What did Roscoe have to say?"

"Not very much. He's also dead, I'm afraid."

Greagoir's eyes widened. "How? If those knife-ears had weapons in the alienage—"

"Greagoir!" Irving looked to the door. "I'll thank you to leave your _slurs_ outside of my tower." He glared at the other man. "In any case, the roof collapsed. When we retrieved the man, his injuries seemed to match what the weight of a falling building would cause."

Now Greagoir crossed his arms. "You can't expect me to believe that the roof just _happened_ to collapse when a templar was inside. Did you even _try_ to find the culprits?"

And here was the part Irving had hoped to avoid. "It's not unheard of for a roof to collapse," he pointed out, "with buildings so cheaply made..." Greagoir raised his eyebrows, and Irving sighed. "It may have been the child. He has magic."

"Killed by a child?" Greagoir fumed. "And what did you do with him? I supposed you just brought him into the tower, didn't you."

"As is custom, yes."

"And what about _custom_ for murderers?"

"He's a _child,_ Greagoir," Irving snapped, "he doesn't have control over his magic, and he can't be much older than 6 or 7 years old, he's not even of the age for a _youth's_ punishment under the law."

There was a knock on the door. Irving turned. "Yes?"

The door opened, and Wynne stepped just inside. "Pardon my intrusion, but the mages in charge of the apprentice dorms didn't know if you'd assigned Quentin a room yet." A small face peered out from behind Wynne's robes, white hair covering his eyes.

Irving ran a hand over his face. "No, I hadn't. Would you mind—"

"I'll take care of it," Wynne said, smiling. "Good day, Irving, Greagoir." The door closed. "It's alright, come along," Wynne's voice echoed, muffled by the door, "Irving's busy..." The footsteps receded.

Greagoir looked at the envelope in his hand. "I suppose I'll just have to deal with this on my own, then."

"I'm sorry about Roscoe," Irving said.

Greagoir shook his head. "If you're right about what happened—and we'll be conducting a thorough investigation to make sure—it's my fault. I may need to keep a closer eye on my men."

"Thank you, Greagoir," Irving said.

Greagoir grunted, and turned to go. "Good day, Irving."

* * *

Alone in an empty dorm, Quentin sat scrunched up in the middle of a small bed, staring at the wall. _"This is the only available room, for the moment,"_ the woman had said, Wynne. _"You'll be put with others your age later, but for now, you can stay with some of the older apprentices."_ The room was silent and dark; they weren't here right now, and Quentin was left alone with only his thoughts. _"Do tell me or one of the other mages if there's anything you need, alright?"_ Quentin had only nodded, and Wynne soon left. But what he wanted was gone, and no one could give it to him even if he asked.

He rubbed his bare arms. The tower was cold, colder even than their little house with the wind blowing through all its holes. He shuffled back on the bed, grabbed the blankets and pulled them over his head. He'd watched the shem coming through one of the holes, a carved out knot in the wood in the front wall.

_"Don't touch me!"_

_"Mm, you're a feisty little knife-ear, aren't you?"_

Quentin burrowed deeper into the blankets, pressed his hands around his ears.

_"Andraste! You bitch, give me that knife!"_

_"No! Don't hurt her, please!"_

_"I'll do whatever I damn well please!"_

The image of this mother ghosted across his eyes, crumpled on the ground below the towering man. His father, rage marring his normally peaceful features, raining tiny fists on the shem's bulky torso. Then his face, empty, red seeping across his worn tunic.

And the shem, laughing, as Quentin ran at him, screaming, as he bounced off the bright silver armour and fell to the floor. The split second of surprise on his face as the roof collapsed, obliterating everything in sight. Quentin, scrambling back under the dusty underside of the tiny table by the wall, that somehow held under the deluge of shattered wood floors, and furniture crashing through the ceiling.

Trapped, crying in the wreckage until he passed out from exhaustion.

The blanket above Quentin moved, and he started back as a dark hand pulled it back, revealing an elf's face framed by coils of dark hair, a child several years older than him, or so he guessed. "You're the new kid, right?" Quentin nodded. "Are you hungry?" she asked. He looked down, considering his stomach, then nodded. "Okay. You missed lunchtime, but the First Enchanter said you can eat something if you're hungry."

"Who?" Quentin asked. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it.

"First Enchanter Irving! He has a big grey beard, and green robes?" She stepped back, waited for him to stand up.

Irving, that was more familiar. He pictured the man standing next to Wynne, and the other bearded man with the shiny armour. Wynne was a lot nicer than the men, he decided. She smiled a lot, and talked to him. The other two just argued.

"Are you coming?" the girl asked. Quentin nodded, and slid off the bed. "Wynne said you're from the alienage," she said, leading him out into the hall. "I'm from there too. Do you know a girl called Liana?" Quentin shook his head. "She's my sister. I knew a kid like you when I lived there, but I don't think it _was_ you, you have a smaller nose. He had _such_ a funny nose. Has anyone showed you the library yet? The books are pretty boring, but sometimes there's a fire, and stuff burns. Boom!" She threw her arms in the air, and Quentin grinned a little.

"Oh!" She stopped walking abruptly, and looked at him. "I forgot, my name's Neri. What's yours?"

"Quentin," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Quentin," she said. "Do you like carrots? Petra said we're having carrots for dinner, you can have mine if I can have your turnips. Petra says they taste the same, but I can taste the difference with my _eyes closed._ There was this one time..."

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  an older neri


End file.
